


D

by dennadarling



Category: Kingkiller Chronicles - Patrick Rothfuss
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:22:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24027325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dennadarling/pseuds/dennadarling
Summary: My attempt to tell parts of Rothfuss's story from Denna's perspective. Denna's diary, beginning with an entry that reflects on the day she met Kvothe on the caravan to Anilin. Sometimes I use Rothfuss's direct text verbatim, but tweaked to reflect Denna's perspective. I do not own these characters or this universe, but I love Denna, I love Kvothe, and I love Denna and Kvothe, and I am starved for more KingKiller content. Thank you for reading and any feedback is welcome! Only slightly graphic. At times smutty. TW: sensitive topics heavily implied
Relationships: Denna/Kvothe (Kingkiller Chronicles)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16





	1. A Sea of Stars

I met a boy today. Gosh, who am I? “I met a boy today.” What is this, some teenager’s diary? Yes, D, actually, that is exactly what this is. How will I ever write great songs of renown if I can’t think beyond the myopic scopes of teenage love fantasy?….Anyway. All judgment aside, this is your diary. Chill. 

I met a boy today. He looked half a hair of a step above a dirty street urchin, if I’m being entirely frank, other than the fact that he wasn’t at all dirty. He had bright red hair, and brighter green eyes...Eyes that looked, and felt like they might actually see me….

It sounds stupid, almost too stupid to write even here, but I think… no, D, it is entirely too stupid to write ANYWHERE, especially here. What if someone finds this diary? What would they think?

No, if you can’t say it here, then where? You need somewhere to lay the weight of your secret heart and no one is going to find this diary. You will die before that happens. 

Here goes:

I fell in love with him.

“Seven words to make a woman love you” always sounded like the cringiest of codswallop when the dumb girls from home went on about it, and there are certainly more than seven things a man can *do* to make you absolutely HATE him, but I digress. Eww. This isn’t about that, leave me and my thoughts alone!

Returning to the boy. I caught him staring at me and asked him what he was thinking, and seven words sang out of his mouth, yes sang, and in fact, I am irrevocably in love with him.

“I was wondering what you’re doing here.” 

I called him a liar, partly because he was a liar (ok, he clearly *was* wondering that very thing on some level, but he was *also* most certainly thinking ungentlemanly thoughts as well, with such lechery was he staring at my neck!) *He* always went on about my neck so I supposed I must have a nice one. But unlike with *him* it didn’t make me feel gross knowing this Kvothe was staring at my neck. The way I always needed seventeen baths after being around *him*, it wasn’t like that at all. This Kvothe made me feel...seen. Lovely, and seen. 

Ugh-- *him*-- I thought I was done talking about *him*, but apparently I’m not. No! He will not ruin this day for me. Today I met a boy and most assuredly fell in love with that boy and this is my story, not his, he has nothing to do with anything, thank you very much. 

So Kvothe--I called him a liar because it was half-true, but I mostly called him a liar to stop myself from blushing as, like I said, those seven words made me his somehow and I was taken entirely off my guard.

You know what he said in response? If you guessed nothing, you would be correct. He shrugged. Actually shrugged. As if he couldn’t have cared less if I thought him a liar or no. As if I was a mildly interesting stone in the river he was considering taking home to his collection, before deciding, no, he did not want to take me home afterall. 

What am I saying? Why *should* he have cared what I thought about him? He was clearly his own person with his own problems. Like I said, I got a strong whiff of street rat off him and it wasn’t because he smelled bad. On the contrary his smell was...enticing. Leaves and clean wood and..citrus? 

His smell, combined with his debonair shrug….I’m wet just thinking about it, and know what I’ll be imagining next time I have some privacy! 

So, he shrugged, and not wanting to seem overly eager, I returned to conversing with Reta who wasn’t nearly as interesting but was nice enough and a good unknowing wing woman. 

I wish I could say he initiated a new conversation with me, but I won’t lie to you, D. Not here. That would sort of defeat the purpose. So after dinner, I approached him. He was playing with the knotwork on Roent’s cargo and for a moment I got excited, wondering if he was Yllish, but I brushed those thoughts aside and I cut straight to the chase, asking him if he’d figured it out. To which he either played dumb, or was actually dumb. So I clarified, and confessed to him that I’d been wondering the same thing my whole life-- what *was* I doing here?-- and I invited him to share some ideas.

I was teasing, of course, but I’m not sure he got that. He took my question literally, shaking his head and musing that he guessed I must be going somewhere. 

Or maybe he was just that dry? I can be quite dry. I don’t hate it! I kind of like it. But I agreed with him, and asked him to guess where I was headed to. He finally smiled at this, a real smile! A tense smile, an awkward smile, but still, a lovely smile that was for me, all mine. He asked me, didn’t I know where I was going? And I tried to confess to him my secret heart, but I’m not sure he heard, in fact, he most certainly didn’t. I mentioned Anilin, and (here’s the confession) admitted that I was often wrong on these matters of where I might be headed to. I guess sort of hoping he might invite me to wherever it was he might be going, but HOW silly is that? Ugh, D, you can be such a dumb sot sometimes! This isn’t a fairy tale and princes don’t just take home every dirty stone they happen by roadside. 

Anyway, it was all for naught, what did I get out of him but more nothingness! Maybe he hadn’t heard of Anilin? But that didn’t make much sense. Either way, clearly he *wasn’t* going to Anilin or we would have exalted over that shared commonality as strangers are wont to do. 

So, since he wasn’t giving me much to go off, I sighed and asked *him* where *he* was going, to which he replied “the University.” That *was* interesting, as you know all about our time in Imre, but it was also slightly disappointing. A scholarly type headed to a city we were taking some time away from--- le sigh. I decided in that moment that I would go if he expressly asked me along, but that I would *not* break my silence with Imre over a boy I met in a caravan without so much as an invitation. 

So, rather than divulge anything remotely close to all that, I teased him about his certainty and asked him how it felt to be so certain. That seemed to stump him, and maybe it did, but I’ll never know, because that was when Reta called us to dinner and he seized the opportunity to avoid answering my question. 

That night, I slept under the wagon, and I actually touched myself beneath my blankets. I was careful, not loud or anything, don’t judge me! Touching myself has become something of a pastime, now that it’s mine, all mine….So, there I lay, curled up under the wagon, touching my nether parts with as much of a fury as I dared, thinking about a certain shrug.. I remembered the depth of his voice, his green eyes and mess of unruly red hair..his hands. OH his hands, that was almost enough right there, the thought of his beautiful, slender hands touching me, caressing me...I wondered what it would feel like to have him stroke my neck while whispering seven words in my ear...I imagined him cupping my breasts with such love, such tenderness...He would tease me, then finally sneak between my thighs just when I couldn’t stand it….I don’t know how I know, but that boy is *so* good with his hands. I’m certain of it. Alas, I did not orgasm, though not for want of trying or a particular lack of material. In the end, I just wasn’t sure I could do it without being all kinds of too loud.

~*~

The next day was interesting. Kvothe seemed to be everywhere and nowhere for the first half of the day, and finally, he actually sought me out! For just a second, I felt a flush of paranoia that he had heard me fondling myself the night before, and somehow knew I’d done so with fervent thoughts of him, but I saved myself from that ridiculous line of thinking and happily accepted his company. We spent the rest of the day as if we were old friends. We joked and told stories. He pointed out the different types of clouds and what they told of the weather to come. I showed him the shapes they held: a rose, a harp, a waterfall. 

So passed the day. Later, when lots were being drawn to see who had which turn at watch, Kvothe and I drew the first two shifts. Without discussing it, we shared the four hours of watch together. Talking softly so as to not wake the others, we sat close by the fire and spent the time watching very little but each other. 

The third day was much the same. We passed the time pleasantly in long conversation, but more often watching the scenery, saying whatever happened to come to our minds. That night we stopped at a wayside inn where Reta bought fodder for the horses and a few other supplies. Reta retired early with her husband, telling each of us that she’d arranged for our dinners and beds with the innkeeper. The former was quite good, bacon and potato soup with fresh bread and butter. The latter was in the stables, but it was still a long sight better than some of the other places I’ve slept.

The common room smelled of smoke and sweat and spilled beer. I asked Kvothe if he wanted to take a walk, and he seemed glad. Outside was the warm quiet of a windless spring night. We talked as we wended our slow way through the wild bit of forest behind the inn. After a while we came to a wide clearing circling a pond. 

On the edge of the water were a pair of waystones, their surfaces silver against the black of the sky, the black of the water. One stood upright, a finger pointing to the sky. The other lay flat, extending into the water like a short stone pier. 

No breath of wind disturbed the surface of the water. So as we climbed out onto the fallen stone the stars reflected themselves in double fashion; as above, so below. It was as if we were sitting amid a sea of stars.

We spoke for hours, late into the night. Neither of us mentioned our pasts. I sensed that there were things he would rather not talk about, and by the way he avoided questioning me, I think he guessed the same. We spoke of ourselves instead, of fond imaginings and impossible things. He pointed to the skies and told me the names of stars and constellations. I told him stories about them he had never heard. 

His eyes were always returning to me. I sat beside him, arms hugging my knees. His skin was more luminous than the moon, his eyes wider than the sky, deeper than the water, darker than the night. 

He stared at me wordlessly for an impossible amount of time, and at some point, it seemed to occur to him. I didn’t mind. As he seemed to be lost in his thoughts, lost in the sight of me, so I was lost in my own thoughts, lost in the sight of him. I wasn’t offended, or amused. I was studying the lines of his face, waiting. 

I wanted him to take my hand. I wanted him to brush my cheek with his fingertips. I wanted him to tell me that I was beautiful, and I wanted to tell HIM that HE was the most beautiful thing I’d seen in four years. That the sight of him yawning into the back of his hand was enough to drive the breath from me, which I suppose is no large feat, my lungs being weak as they are...I wanted him to admit he sometimes lost the sense of my words in the sweet fluting of my voice. I wanted to tell him, “Me too.” I wanted to say that if he were with me then somehow nothing could ever be wrong for me again. 

In that breathless second I almost asked him. I felt the question boiling up from my chest. I remember drawing a breath then hesitating-- what could I say? Take me away with you? Stay with me? Bring me with you to the University? No. Sudden certainty tightened in my chest like a cold fist that had nothing to do with my lungs. What could I ask him? What could I offer? Nothing. Anything I said would sound foolish, a girl’s fantasy.

I closed my mouth and looked across the water. Inches away, Kvothe did the same. I could feel the heat of him. He smelled like road dust, and lemon, and the smell the air holds seconds before a heavy summer storm.

Neither of us spoke. I closed my eyes. The closeness of him was the sweetest, sharpest thing my life had ever known.


	2. Yet to Learn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A re-telling of chapter 34 "Yet to Learn" from Patrick Rothfuss's "The Name of the Wind." Denna's diary reflection on how that day passed and what it meant to her. Much of it is Rothfuss's words verbatim, tweaked to reflect Denna's perspective.

I awoke this morning from the sweetest dream. Obviously, I spent hardly any time at all last night actually sleeping, but that was nothing new. You know what sort of dreams we normally have. And when it isn’t dreams, it’s my thrice-damned shortness of breath. So, it was a nice change to have stayed awake voluntarily for once. No less wonderful for it having been spent in the intoxicating closeness of my Kvothe... even if the night hadn’t ended in sweet kisses and bold confessions of love. 

I’d forgotten the strange pain that comes with waking from a dream that’s sweet. Like everything is perfect, and wonderful, then you wake up, and there’s drool on your shirt and you remove a bug crawling up your trousers and you’re actually alone in a pile of straw, not in the arms of your lover…

Still, being no stranger to sleepless nights, I happily helped Reta and her husband pack up for the day and introduced myself to the newest member of our caravan. His name was Josn, and he’d apparently paid Roent the night before for passage to, and you won’t believe this, Anilin! He had an easy manner and an honest smile. I missed Kvothe already, but he seemed grumpy and anti-social, half-asleep in the wagon. It seemed best to let him be. 

So, I spent the day riding next to Josn. He was a bit of a tool, flattering me outrageously and making awful jokes about me becoming one of his wives. Yes, wives was plural, he was that obnoxious. But he was nice enough for all that, and mildly interesting. He was a musician, so I particularly enjoyed picking his brain about his training and the more technical aspects of music that I’ve been meaning to learn more about. 

When Kvothe finally woke up from his dozing, I hoped he might join us, but he didn’t. I still remembered the way he had looked last night, with the moon reflecting off the water behind him...had I somehow offended him last night? I don’t remember anything sour, to the contrary it was all such sweet harmonious bliss and an achey pining for more…. But for whatever reason, he seemed very much like someone who wanted to be left alone, so leave him alone I did. 

Once the sun had set, Josn brought out a large black case with brass buckles along one side that could only have been his lute. He’d promised to play for me during our ride, and I was looking forward to it, though something about his energy irritated me. He seemed to sense the group’s anticipation and was not very humble about it. He slowly undid the brass clasps and drew out his lute with an air of studied nonchalance. I recognized it as a trouper’s lute: it had a long, graceful neck. Sure of everyone’s attention, he cocked his head and strummed, pausing to listen to the sound. Then, nodding to himself, he started to play. 

He had a fair tenor and reasonably clever fingers. He played a ballad, then a light, quick drinking song, then a slow, sad melody in Yllish! Yes, Yllish. Of course, my knowledge is limited but I could recognize the bare bones anywhere. Lastly, he played “Tinker Tanner,” and everyone came in on the chorus. Everyone but Kvothe, I couldn’t help but notice. 

Kvothe sat still as stone with his fingers clenched. Something was bothering him and I couldn’t for the life of me guess what it might have been. “Bothering” is not even the right word-- my boy looked tormented, absolutely wretched in a way that had nothing to do with sleeplessness. My heart broke into a million tiny pieces as I drank up his sadness. 

Still, there was nothing to be done, so I kept singing along with everyone else. Maybe if I had tried to do more, if I had gone to him at that moment, things would have turned out differently for us….But no. It does no good to lament roads not travelled. 

Josn finished the song with a flourish, and Roent clapped his hands a couple of times to get everyone’s attention. “Time for sleep. You sleep too late--”  
Derrik broke in, gently teasing.” … we get left behind. We know, Master Roent. We’ll be ready to roll with the light.” 

Josn laughed and flipped open his lute case with his foot. But before he could put it away Kvothe called over to him. This was, to my knowledge, the first time Kvothe had actually acknowledged Josn’s existence. 

“Could I see that for a second?” he asked in a voice that was unnaturally hollow. Unless I’m missing my mark, he was actually desperate. He did his best to sound idly curious, but it didn’t fool me. It was not a good look for him, this boy with the iron certainty. Again, my heart shattered at the knowledge that my love was suffering from some unknown darkness. Darkness and I are no strangers. But it felt different, seeing it in someone I loved so dearly. Blacker still was the knowledge that there was not a hoot I could do to help him. 

“Just for a second?” he continued, and this time I’m not sure he kept his desperation from anyone. 

Josn stiffened slightly, reluctant. But he seemed just as interested in keeping up friendly appearances. “Certainly,” he said with a jocularity that I saw as false but was probably convincing to others. I somehow doubt Kvothe was fooled either, but his desire for the lute seemed to trump all sense of pride, or propriety. 

Josn strode over to Kvothe and held it out. “Be careful…” 

Josn took a couple of steps back and gave a very good appearance of being at ease. But I saw how he stood with his arms slightly bent, ready to rush forward and whisk the lute away from Kvothe if the need arose. 

Kvothe turned it over in his hands. It really was nothing special. He touched the wood. He cradled it against his chest. I fought back my tears. 

He spoke without looking up. “It’s beautiful,” he said softly, his voice rough with emotion.  
And so it was. The way he looked at that lute was beautiful. The way he handled it. It was the most beautiful thing I had seen in four years. More beautiful than the sight of a spring field after a year with my monstrous uncle. More beautiful than Kvothe himself. Almost. 

I can honestly say that I’m still not really myself. I am only four days away from my near touch with street whoredom. I’m not the same person I was back before it happened, but neither am I the woman who will be told about in stories (because I know, one day, I will be.) I have changed because of what happened. I have learned many things it would be easier to live without. 

But sitting beside the fire, watching Kvothe bend over his lute, I felt the hard, unpleasant parts of myself that I have gained in the past four years crack. Like a clay mold around a now-cool piece of iron they fell away, leaving something clean and hard behind. 

He sounded the strings, one at a time. When he hit the third it was ever so slightly off and he gave one of the tuning pegs a minute adjustment. 

“Here now, don’t go touching those,” Josn tried to sound casual, “you’ll turn it from true.” But Kvothe didn’t seem to hear him. The singer and all the rest, myself included I’m sad to say, couldn’t have been farther away from him if we’d been at the bottom of the Centhe Sea. 

He touched the last string and tuned it too, ever so slightly. He made a simple chord and strummed it. It rang soft and true. He moved a finger and the chord went minor in a way that somehow seemed to say *sad*. He moved his hands again and the lute made two chords whispering against each other. Then, without seeming to realize what he was doing, he began to play.

Suffice to say, the boy *was* good with his hands. The strings seemed to feel strange against his fingers, like reunited friends who have forgotten what they have in common. He played soft and slow, sending notes no farther than the circle of our firelight. Fingers and strings made a careful conversation, as if their dance described the lines of an infatuation. 

I was besotted with infatuation. 

Then something inside him seemed to break, and music began to pour out into the quiet. His fingers danced; intricate and quick they spun something gossamer and tremulous into the circle of light our fire had made. The music moved like a spiderweb stirred by a gentle breath, it changed like a leaf twisting as it falls to the ground, and it felt like four years of my uncle, of Waterside in Tarbean, of dancing my dance in Imre. It was the hollowness inside you and hands that ached from the bitter cold. 

I don’t know how long he played. It could have been ten minutes or an hour. But his hands didn’t seem to be used to the strain. They slipped and the music fell to pieces like this morning’s dream upon waking.  
He looked up to see everyone perfectly motionless, their faces ranging from shock to amazement. Tears were spilling hot from my eyes, and I was about to give up on all efforts of concealment. Then, as if his gaze had broken some spell, everyone stirred. Roent shifted in his seat. The two mercenaries turned and raised eyebrows at each other. Derrik looked at him as if he had never seen him before. Reta remained frozen, her hand held in front of her mouth. I lowered my face into my hands and cried in quiet, hopeless sobs. 

Josn simply stood. His face was stricken and bloodless as if he had been stabbed. 

Kvothe held out the lute, not apologizing or thanking Josn. Josn took it numbly. After a moment, Kvothe left us sitting by the fire and walked toward the wagons. 

And that is how my Kvothe spent his last night before leaving me for the University, with his cloak as his blanket and his bed. As he lay down, behind him was a circle of fire, and before him lay shadow like a mantle, gathered. His eyes were open, that much is certain, and I’d give my left hand to know what he was seeing…

I wanted *so* to go to him. To hold him. To whisper sweet nothings and tell him it was okay. Instead I shrugged off Josn’s attentions and found my own space for rest. 

I could still see Kvothe out of the corner of my eye, but I looked behind him instead, to the circle of light that the fire had made. I left Kvothe to himself. Everyone deserves a moment or two alone when they desire it. I certainly needed my own. There were tears, and more tears, and more tears. A deluge of tears there was. I knew he was crying too. But I forgave him. He was, like me, a child after all and I had the sinking feeling we both had yet to learn what sorrow really was.


	3. A Parting of Ways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A re-telling of chapter 35 "A Parting of Ways" in Patrick Rothfuss's "The Name of the Wind." Denna's diary entry, her perspective. I sometimes use Rothfuss's verbatim words, tweaked to reflect her perspective.

The weather held fair today, which meant that the wagons rolled into Imre just as the sun was setting. My mood was sad and confused but I doubt anyone in the caravan could sense that. I’d wanted to seek out Kvothe and squeeze his hand or something, but I wasn’t sure how to approach him after last night’s emotional turbulence. So, I didn’t have much excuse not to join Josn in a wagon. It was fine, he was fine. I was sad, but that’s nothing new. Kvothe kept his distance from both of us. Before I knew what was happening, we were arriving in Imre. 

A whirl of activity sprang up as soon as the wagons rolled to a stop. Roent began to argue with a clean-shaven man in a velvet hat before he had brought his wagon to a full stop. After the initial bout of bargaining, a dozen men began unloading bolts of cloth, barrels of molasses, and burlap sacks of coffee. Reta cast a stern eye over the lot of them. Josn scuttled around, trying to keep his luggage from being damaged or stolen. I, of course, had hardly any luggage at all, and remained unperturbed. By the prospect of broken luggage, at least. But the imminent prospect of my breaking heart, that was another matter entire. 

Kvothe also had only the one travelsack. I took the moment of chaos as an opportunity to sneak off and relieve myself. I was quick, not wanting to leave without wishing him “later.” 

He was gazing about with that far-off look in his eyes and almost bumped into me. 

I wrung my hands behind my back and smiled, probably awkwardly. He was lovely as the sun, and totally unconscious of it. I was suddenly short of breath, and I forgot myself, my sadness, my hurt. 

“You’re still going?” I asked with hopelessness masked as vague curiosity. 

He nodded, and that hardened my resolve. Now, or never, D.

“You could come to Anilin with us,” I suggested. “They say the streets are paved with gold there. You could teach Josn to play that lute he carries around.” I smiled. “I’ve asked him, and he’s said he wouldn’t mind.”

He seemed to consider it. For half a heartbeat I thought he might throw all his plans away just to stay with me a little longer. But the moment passed and he shook his head. My heart sunk into its vast pool of black, but I wouldn’t let him see. Did I really think this boy would just toss his plans to the wind for the likes of me? Good grief. I think I actually did.I found myself wondering if I could change my plans instead, I wasn’t married to Anilin, but-- 

“Don’t look like that,” I chided him with a smile, deciding. “I’ll be there for a while. If things don’t work out for you here.” I trailed off hopefully. 

It wasn’t so long ago at all that I myself had arrived in Imre with nothing but a travelsack on my back and a dream. At the time, I’d had no plan B, no clue what I would do if things didn’t work out in this greatest of artistic hubs. Suffice to say, things hadn’t worked out at all, as a matter of fact, and life had gone on. I’d proven once more that my resilience was pure iron. Proven it, and hoped the day would come when that message no longer needed reiterating. It was a vain hope, and I knew it. 

The whole thing was silly. I would have to go onto Anilin now, if for no other reason than the promise I made myself-- no changing of the plans for wayward boys, regardless of my feelings toward said wayward boys. 

If I couldn't even keep a promise made to myself, what kind of a person was I?

I knew the truth. Anilin was hundreds of miles away. I barely owned the clothes on my back, and never stayed anywhere too long. How would he find me, even if he did come looking, which he wouldn’t? 

I read the thoughts on his face, and they directly mirrored my own. I smiled playfully, deciding once more. “I guess I’ll just have to come looking for you, then.”

I would continue onto Anilin. But what was stopping me from making my way back to Imre, much sooner rather than later? Imre 2.0, I would call it: the Kvothe edition. It would be a tale to make the minstrels weep! Of that I’m almost certain.

I’m a traveller. My life is composed of meetings and partings, with brief, bright acquaintances in-between. Sometimes the encounters are actually everything but bright, but would you stop it with the angst? We get it. You’ve been hurt.

Because of this, I knew the truth. I felt it, heavy and certain in the pit of my stomach: I would never see him again. Even if I did somehow see him again, he would be different. I would be different. I'd fallen in love with a boy on the road and that boy was leaving me for bigger prospects. Seeing him again would only lead to heartache and why did that thought hurt so good?

Not wanting to burst into tears, I composed myself, then told him, “I had better go. Watch for me.” I flashed him my best impish smile before turning to walk away. 

“I will!” he called after me. “I’ll see you where the roads meet.”

I glanced back and almost rushed him headlong at those words. But I decided instead upon a wave, and ran off into the early evening twilight, trying to outrace my tears.


	4. The Painted Horse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Denna arrives at Anilin, but it isn't what she hoped. And the roads weren't even paved gold!

The road to Anilin was uneventful. Josn and I joshed around and he showed me some basic cords. Josn played his lute. He didn’t have a thimble of the passion Kvothe had displayed, nor was he half so talented, but I didn’t say any of that to his face. I smiled, I clapped. I even sang a bit, and the rest of the caravan was quite impressed. This latter embarrassed me, as we know all about our miserable, short-lived musical "career" of yonder. I probably wouldn’t have sang for them at all, if not for the extra cup of wine I’d indulged in. But I'm glad I had. It was refreshing, and cathartic. They delighted in my voice, and I remembered that whatever happened in Imre, I *did* have a good voice. Possibly even a great one, with a little sharpening and training. We are destined for great things, D. The dream is alive. 

When we arrived in Anilin, Josn told me he was heading to an inn called “The Painted Horse,” an inn his cousin apparently owned. I didn’t hesitate to take his unspoken offer, and I gave my warm farewells to Reta and Roent. Reta actually gave me a full jot in private for being “such a joy, and helping hand to boot,” and I considered myself lucky.

I wondered what Kvothe was doing. Did they accept him at the University? He did seem rather young. Clever, of course. Sharp as a tack. But I thought you had to be some sort of adult proper to attend the University? The boy couldn’t have been 15 and a day, or my left butt cheek sprouts golden hairs. Hah, I love that about this diary. I can make jokes like that, which are far from lady-like and not charming in the least, and no one’s around to give half a hoot. 

But poor Kvothe-- didn’t you need something similar to a writ of patronage for the University to even consider you? I seriously doubted he had anything of the sort, but what did I know? For all I knew, he was prince of some distant kingdom. Kind of a big deal somewhere far, far away. But of course, he was neither, poor soul. He was like me. Wandering, but not lost. Bent, but not broken. Rough around the edges. Low-born, like as not. 

For a moment, my heart stopped, and I wondered if I had made a terrible mistake in abandoning him to the cruel realities of that town. I *had* known better, after all. He had no idea. What would he do if they rejected him? I’d told him to come find me, but even if he did, how could he possibly manage that? “Excuse me, sir, I’m looking for a young woman, dark of hair, dark of eye, lovely, about my age, sir. Have you seen her?” D! How could you be *so* stupid? Thrice-damned thoughtless-- 

Speaking of age, depending on what day it is, I’m pretty sure I’m 16 now, or am about to be 16, or just became 16 at this moment. Happy birthday to us, D. Time to push our Kvothe aside. It’s out of our hands. If he’s truly like us, he’s resilient, and he will figure it out.

Money in our pockets, clothes on our back, a warm bed for the night, and the prospect of musical lessons-- what could possibly go wrong?

The Painted Horse was exquisite. No, it wasn’t paved on a golden road but the clientele certainly had gold. Josn introduced me to his cousin, Bret, and that was the first sign of disaster in waiting. I did not like his cousin. He was tall, and arrogant, and lusty, and not the good kind of lusty. 

I had been planning on having a few drinks and watching Josn play for the crowd, but his cousin raised my hackles. Instead, I thanked him for his hospitality and insisted that I was “ohhhhh so road weary” and needed nothing more than a warm bath and a good night’s shut eye. I didn’t even wait for dinner, though, Josn insisted I take some bread and butter up to my rooms. He was loud and clear that he would be bedding in the room next to me, and that he would leave his door unlocked if I had any trouble sleeping. 

Alright then, Josn. As a matter of fact, I hardly sleep at all. And I’m thinking, if you want me to be one of your wives, I might be into a little roleplay wherein you pay the true price of that being the case. The price for a span or so, at least. I'm certainly not greedy. 

My bath arrived in swift time. I scrubbed myself pink and clean, washing all the road dust off. I didn’t bother redressing for the nonce. I went through my stretching routine. I meditated. I wrote in here, obviously. I masterbated. I regretted skipping dinner and considered for the briefest of seconds going back downstairs, but I was still dirty from Bret’s up-and-over and shook that right out of the realm of possibility.

I wondered about Kvothe. I waited. I even attempted to write a song, or I guess, lacking music, a poem. 

Only a shipwreck  
Is colder, blacker than my  
Empty, voided heart  
Now that you’re gone  
And I am fond  
Of your fiery memory

What am I doing? Didn’t Kvothe say he hated poetry? Something about “poetry is for people who can’t sing.” I didn’t really think that was a fair critique of the medium. I wasn’t a scholar by any means, but I’ve read some good poetry in my time. Sure, I’ve encountered plenty of bad poetry as well, mostly from thrice-sorry suitors. But there was something to be said about trained talent vs inherent talent, and of course, Kvothe had both in triple spades, law dee daw dee daw. Must be nice! But it didn’t take “talent” to be born with a naturally good voice. Like me. I sing well, and have a natural knack for music. I can pick up a song from hearing it once, and I haven't had a lick of training in my life.. But does that make me better than Susie down the road who couldn’t hold a tune if her dowry depended on it? Somehow I didn’t think so. And if she wanted to write a poem about the troubles of churning butter, but never thought to put it to music, what was the harm in that? Creativity is creativity and yes, Kvothe is clearly an elitist. 

Well, Kvothe, suck on that. I wrote you a poem. A bad one. Good thing we’re dying before we let anyone find this! 

There it is-- the sound we’ve been waiting for all night. Josn stumbling loudly into his bed. Is he listening outside my door? The ravel bastard! If I had any reservations about my plans for him, he just dug his own grave with that little stunt. No one spies on me.


	5. Imre 2.0

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Denna finds herself back in Imre, sitting on a bench in the University. She hopes to meet Kvothe but has to settle for a different type of horse.

Hey sorry I haven’t written here in a while. I’ve been busy, and not entirely safe or comfortable these past months. If you didn’t guess from what I titled this page, we’re back in Imre. I arrived yesterday. I washed up by Deoch’s place and went straight to the University without so much as stopping to share a cup of coffee with him. Please forgive me, dear Deoch! You’re the best!

The University was a sprawling place, and my heart sank a little at the prospect of not finding him. I sat on a bench and ate a pear. I watched the wind and found shapes in the clouds. I smiled when I realized the clouds meant “high possibility of rain,” something he had taught me. I saw a fox. I stopped watching the clouds when I remembered what I was doing. I figured I was bound to see him amidst the sea of students and faculty going about their business, but not if I was caught up gazing at the sky. His hair was bright, afterall. How many other redheads could there possibly be? 

Actually, I tried the library first, but this pretty brunette regretfully informed me that it was not open to the public. She seemed genuinely sorry, and I considered asking her to make an exception for me. I can be quite charming, you know. I also thought about asking her if she knew Kvothe, but thought better of both and skipped off before she could ask any more questions. One thing I did notice about this University, there was an almost offensive paucity of women!

He *was* here, I could feel it in my bones. The city felt different somehow, a little more wonderful than it had last time we’d visited. So, I sat on my bench. I fiddled with my ring. I thought of grandma and what she would say, her darling D-bug chasing wayward street scum to the edges of society. I imagined what my life would be like if I were a student here. She wouldn’t like that much better, I’m sure. Which subjects would I study? Would I make friends with my bunkmates? I’d heard rumors that all the women of the university bunk together in one room, but I seriously doubted the merit of that tale.  
Would I learn maaaaaaagic? I wondered vaguely if there were classes on Yllish knotwork. Maybe there were books about the Amyr? THAT was an interesting question, maybe I should go back to the library-- 

My thoughts were interrupted by a boy holding out a--ugh, a rose. 

“A rose for your thoughts, my lady?” 

I rolled my eyes inside my head, managing to keep my expression composed. “A gift not freely given is no true gift at all, sir,” I replied coolly. I smiled letting him know that I was mostly teasing. Mostly. 

He chuckled heartily. “Fair enough, lady. I’ll settle for your name? You can keep the rose either way.” 

“Hmmmmm. I suppose I can tell you my name, but you first.” What were we calling ourselves again? 

“Sovoy of Modeg.” He bowed with a flourish. Another ass-kisser. I knew the type so well. Noble. Arrogant. Wealthy. 

“Diane. Pleasure.” I gave my own exaggerated seated curtsy and took the rose from his hands. 

“Are you a student here?” he asked. “I’ve not seen you around and your face isn’t one I’d miss!” 

“I am, in fact, a student, but certainly not here.”

He looked at me, as if expecting me to continue, but I didn’t. 

So came to pass my brief courtship with Sovoy the University student. He took me to lunch at the Golden Pony, and we walked back to Imre together. I made up a story about a grabby porter at the place I’d been staying, and it was no problem at all for him to secure me rooms at a choicer inn. I was busy tonight, but promised to have dinner with him the next evening. 

This went on for the rest of the week. After the third dinner, he kissed me, and I decided to let him. He was sort of a sot but he was a yummy sot and it felt good to touch someone closer to 20 then they were to 30 plus. I liked his beard and his crystal blue eyes. We didn’t go all the way but I may have let him unlace my top. And tease my nether regions. And I may have grabbed him in places… a lady never tells! Not even here, D. 

Naturally, I became indisposed for a few days after that happened. 

On Felling, he chased me down and he insisted we go shopping. He had a surprise date night planned for us and he wanted me to “feel like a princess.” Yes, that is the phrasology he used. It would have been romantic if I didn’t take it for granted we were going to the Eolian (I’d mentioned my penchant for music ) and if I wasn’t certain he just wanted to display me for all the high society to see. The new dress was just insurance that I was clad in a getup such as I had never before been seen wearing. A show of ownership over me. I did need a new “going out” dress, but I didn’t for a second believe it was a gift freely given. I’m glad I stopped myself the other day!!! It had taken a lot to do so but I guess it might be time to start plotting my exit. 

I asked Sovoy shyly if we could go to Rebekka’s and he was happy enough to oblige. I took my time to try on just enough dresses to wear out his patience with shopping, but not me. Green gowns, silk gowns, pieces of gold and pink and blue. Short gowns, long gowns, tight, flowy, big. Finally I tried on the one I’d already picked out for myself two days ago. It was a black and silver number, long and sleek with a scandalous slit that exposed a healthy dose of thigh. I have shapely thighs. What can I say?

The dress cost a pretty penny, eight whole talents, but Sovoy couldn’t help but agree. While the others had been lovely, this dress was made for me and nothing was to be done but take it. 

He wanted to come up to my rooms so I could “try it on for him in private” but I clouted him on the head and told him I would see him that evening. I had much to do if I was going to “feel like a princess” tonight.


End file.
